You start your Monday thinking about updating the rota or catching up on audits. By noon, your senior carer calls in sick—not just with a sniffle, but with proper flu. That's at least a week off. Then, a field supervisor messages you, explaining that her child's school has unexpectedly shut down. She's out too.
A couple of hours later, a client’s family calls. Their loved one—a long-term, cherished service user—has passed away. You inform the team, and they are visibly shaken. This wasn’t just "work" for them. This was a person they had shared birthdays with, made tea for, and listened to stories from. This was a relationship, and now there’s a void—both emotional and operational.
Now, there’s a gap in your team. A hole in your rota. A financial burden on your service until you can safely fill that gap. Yet, you are still expected to deliver care with compassion, compliance, and continuity.
This is the nature of care. You can’t avoid the storm; you can only learn to sail through it.
Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate Stoicism, which doesn’t ask us to become emotionless. Grief, stress, and even panic are natural responses. What truly matters is how we respond next.
When things fall apart, many people tend to freeze or flail. The Registered Manager—the one who views this work as a calling, not just a job—takes a deep breath and asks: What do I control?
You can’t control illness.
You can’t control mortality.
You can’t control the tears of your staff or your own breaking heart.
But you can control how you lead.
You rally cover—perhaps you roll up your sleeves and conduct visits yourself. You reach out to your staff, giving them space to grieve. You inform those who refer to your service and plan for replacements, ensuring the business continues to run.
You don’t do this because it’s easy; you do it because people are counting on you—your team, your family, and your clients.
Marcus Aurelius, who ran an empire, still wrote, “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do, say, and think.” In care, we experience this daily. Mortality is not just an abstract concept; it’s a calendar entry or a call in the middle of the night. I recall a time years ago when the daughter of one of our clients Facetimed me at 1 a.m., sitting next to her mother’s body, unsure of what to do. I remember it vividly.
Keep the long view! This perspective offers clarity. It reminds us of what truly matters—why we endure the stress, the tears, and the 5a.m. cancellations—because this work is profoundly human.
And because someone has to hold the line.
So, the next time your day goes off the rails, pause. Breathe. Ask yourself what’s within your control. Then, with calm and courage, take action.
